


(with you) i'm in warm water swimming down

by scrapbullet



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Ficlet, Gen, M/M, Rope Bondage, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 02:26:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8559739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: “You make this so hard.” Billy squeezes, oh-so-gentle, practically massaging the stiff muscles under his questing palm. Those hands undoubtedly know what they’re doing as they move, tracing the curve of Flint’s spine, supine, feeling out each bump and ridge. “It doesn’t have to be. Let go, and the rope will catch you. I’ll catch you. All I need are your words.”





	

At times, the pressure in his chest is too much to bear. Like a lead weight it forces air from his lungs in such a way as to leave him more than simply breathless, but as to almost make him believe that his ribs might cave in from the force of it, crushing him beneath the multitude of terrible sins that have since accumulated.

Rum does little to stave off the din, and opium, also, serves as a temporary solution. They are a balm that lasts no more than a night before the sunrise brings the pain of it all, the ache that threatens to consume body and soul. And then, _then_ , there is the guilt, the kind that ricochets through his skull, a sharp agony akin to a gun-shot. Such guilt as to bring him dreams of terror, or Miranda’s face twisted into a rictus of anger and despair.

His guilt, and his shame... is there little wonder that he cannot live with it?

Thus, it comes to this, for there are few that Flint trusts. In the safety of his cabin - with its soothing off-white walls and the corners of his desk worn down to rounded edges - he allows himself a moment of respite as Billy works. For a blessed minute there is only the sound of their breath, soft and heady, as the Walrus creaks and groans.

“You’re sure you want this?”

Flint nods, his cheek rubbing against his desk. Like this, shirtless, belly-down and spread-eagled on something so solid, he almost feels comforted. No doubt it is why Billy suggested this - stability, of a sort, with Flint’s arms secured above his head, looped and wrapped and knotted intricately so as to be perfectly comfortable - as opposed to the swaying motion of the cot. 

There; a palm, rough with calluses, cups the back of his neck. “Your words, Captain?”

Words, always words. Assurances, even, and Flint trembles in the snug hold of rope as he struggles, both mentally and physically, to succumb to what Billy is offering. His body arches, the desk moaning from the force of it, like the wilful bucking of an unbroken mare fighting the saddle. Hissing, Flint bares his teeth.

Billy sighs, and although the sound is not one of disappointment it hits Flint in the chest regardless. 

“You make this so hard.” Billy squeezes, oh-so-gentle, practically massaging the stiff muscles under his questing palm. Those hands undoubtedly know what they’re doing as they move, tracing the curve of Flint’s spine, supine, feeling out each bump and ridge. “It doesn’t have to be. Let go, and the rope will catch you. I’ll catch you. All I need are your words.”

His heart pounds erratically, threatening to burst from his rib-cage. Billy, stead-fast, reliable Billy, strokes his fingers over Flint's head; encouraging.

“I want this,” Flint grits out, the acknowledgement as terrifying as the realisation. Panting for air he subsides, eyes clenched shut against the haze of peace that Billy offers to him, if only for a short time. 

_It’s right there_ , it teases, _just reach out and take it_.

With a shudder and a wordless sob Flint goes under, lets the clasp of Billy’s sure fingers soak up the horror of his life and his wrong-doings like a sponge. He floats under the tender administrations of Billy, whose presence is a constant, clever fingers checking each and every knot. Here, this is no pain. Here, this is only Flint and Billy and the warmth that pervades it all.

“You’re doing well.” Billy’s voice sounds far away. “Just breathe. In and out. That’s it.”

It’s the kind of bliss that no drug can provide. Billy is his anchor as Flint is submerged, and so he rests, a beatific smile on his lips, for the first time in months.

When Flint next opens his eyes it is to find them sticky, lashes wet with the evidence of shed tears. His body aches, the good kind, that thrums through him and leaves him gloriously exhausted. His hands are free, the rope discarded.

“How do you feel?” Billy asks, coiling the length of rope over his arm.

Flint exhales, and lo, his demons have departed. “Ready.” He grins, rejuvenated. “Your assistance is appreciated, as always, Mr Bones.”


End file.
